翻开一本书寂寞是下午四五点的时针错动。面对一杯水和一本小说,我本以为有最快的方式可以抵达它的内心,它的后面,它的书脊,抑或它的文章段落;善感的侧面,白纸反映文字的黑色,削瘦的不再是背影,无数用油墨打印的字条,按照顺序叙述逻辑故事,快乐或悲伤,将灰尘逐一打磨。 Open a book loneliness is four o'clock in the afternoon hour hand staggered. In the face of a glass of water and a novel, I thought the quickest way was to reach its innermost, its back, its spine, or its passage of passages; the side of sensuality, the black of the white paper, the thinned Is no longer the back, numerous print notes with ink, described in accordance with the logical sequence of stories, happy or sad, the dust one by one polished.